Cluttered floors, socks and books and cardboard boxes.
Am I shrinking? Losing wrinkles, even?
We rest in this mess and
secretly I hate it.

"Eileen...
Eileen."

What is it?

"Do you see it?"

The mismatched socks I've lost here in the past few weeks?

"Do you see the veins on my hands?"

There they are,
protruding outward, all of them, like I'd never care to witness.
Little tunnels beneath the flesh, traveling towards
nowhere.
Just traveling.
I see them as uplifted dirt, voles burrowing through the ground.
Myself, a child, stomping them back down.
But, this is her blood,
the life of which, ready to jump out from it's veil of skin.
The pressure, still pounding against my continued silence.